“Let’s not talk of me!“ she pleaded. “It is New Year’s eve. In Sweden that means so much, so very much. There we go to church and eat and drink and see everybody we know. I have been blue all day. At home, in Stockholm, they are skiing and skating and throwing snowballs at one another. The cheeks are red – oh, please, let’s not talk of me.
“I was born; I grew up; I have lived like every other person. Why must people talk about me? We all do the same things in ways that are just a little different. We go to school, we learn; we are bad at times; we are good at other. We find our life work and we do it. That’s all there is to anyone’s life story, isn’t it?
“I have been reading other life stories. Some people were born in red brick houses, others in plain white board ones. What is the difference? We were all born in houses. I will not have it printed that I was born in this house or that; that my mother was this or my father that. They were my mother and my father, just as yours were your mother and your father. To me that is what counts. Why should the world talk about them? I don`t want the world to talk about my mother and my father.
“Nor my brother, nor my sister. My sister – she has died since I came to this country – I cannot believe it until I return to my home and find – she is not there to greet me.
“My brother – he wants to come to America. I do not know. Pictures? He is so timid. But, then, I, too, was timid.
“Why should I tell the world about them? They are mine! No, I am the youngest, but they have always treated me as the oldest. I can’t remember being young, really young, like other children. I always had my opinions, but never told my mind. No one ever seemed to think I was young.
“My father died when I was fourteen. God, what a feeling. Someone you love is there, then he is not there. Gone where you can’t see him, can’t talk with him. You go to the studio, work all day, come home to the hotel, lie down, turn out the lights, and think about him.
“The same flesh, the same blood – yet he is gone, never to return. Gone – my God, what a feeling. “I have always been moody. When I was just a little child, as early as I can remember, I have wanted to be alone. I detest crowds, don’t like many people. I used to crawl into a corner and sit and think, think things over. When just a baby, I was always figuring, wondering what it was all about – just why we were living.
“Children should be allowed to think when they please; should not been molested. ’Go and play now,’’ their mothers and fathers tell them. They shouldn’t do that, thinking means so much to even small children.
“When I wasn’t thinking, wasn’t wondering what it was all about, this living; I was dreaming. Dreaming how I could become a player.
“No, one of my people were on the stage. It was just born in me, I guess. Why, when I was just a little thing, I had some water colors. Just as other children have water colors. Only I drew pictures on myself, rather than on paper. I used to paint my lips, my cheeks, paint pictures on me. I thought that was the way actresses painted.
“Long before I had been in a theater, I did this. I don’t know where I got it: from pictures, from others talking – or just from me, the inside of me. I didn’t play much. Except skating and skiing and throwing snowballs. I did most of my playing by thinking. I played a little with my brother and sister, pretending we were in shows. Like other children. But usually I did my own pretending. I was up and down. Very happy one moment, the next moment – there was nothing left for me.
“Then I found a theater. I must have been six or seven. Two theaters, really. One was a cabaret; one a regular theater, – across from one another. And there was a back porch to both of them. A long plank on which the actors and actresses walked to get in the back door. I used to go there at seven o’clock in the evening, when they would be coming in, and wait until eight-thirty. Watch them come in; listen to them getting ready. The big back door was always open even in the coldest weather.
“I was born; I grew up; I have lived like every other person. Why must people talk about me? We all do the same things in ways that are just a little different. We go to school, we learn; we are bad at times; we are good at other. We find our life work and we do it. That’s all there is to anyone’s life story, isn’t it?
“I have been reading other life stories. Some people were born in red brick houses, others in plain white board ones. What is the difference? We were all born in houses. I will not have it printed that I was born in this house or that; that my mother was this or my father that. They were my mother and my father, just as yours were your mother and your father. To me that is what counts. Why should the world talk about them? I don`t want the world to talk about my mother and my father.
“Nor my brother, nor my sister. My sister – she has died since I came to this country – I cannot believe it until I return to my home and find – she is not there to greet me.
“My brother – he wants to come to America. I do not know. Pictures? He is so timid. But, then, I, too, was timid.
“Why should I tell the world about them? They are mine! No, I am the youngest, but they have always treated me as the oldest. I can’t remember being young, really young, like other children. I always had my opinions, but never told my mind. No one ever seemed to think I was young.
“My father died when I was fourteen. God, what a feeling. Someone you love is there, then he is not there. Gone where you can’t see him, can’t talk with him. You go to the studio, work all day, come home to the hotel, lie down, turn out the lights, and think about him.
“The same flesh, the same blood – yet he is gone, never to return. Gone – my God, what a feeling. “I have always been moody. When I was just a little child, as early as I can remember, I have wanted to be alone. I detest crowds, don’t like many people. I used to crawl into a corner and sit and think, think things over. When just a baby, I was always figuring, wondering what it was all about – just why we were living.
“Children should be allowed to think when they please; should not been molested. ’Go and play now,’’ their mothers and fathers tell them. They shouldn’t do that, thinking means so much to even small children.
“When I wasn’t thinking, wasn’t wondering what it was all about, this living; I was dreaming. Dreaming how I could become a player.
“No, one of my people were on the stage. It was just born in me, I guess. Why, when I was just a little thing, I had some water colors. Just as other children have water colors. Only I drew pictures on myself, rather than on paper. I used to paint my lips, my cheeks, paint pictures on me. I thought that was the way actresses painted.
“Long before I had been in a theater, I did this. I don’t know where I got it: from pictures, from others talking – or just from me, the inside of me. I didn’t play much. Except skating and skiing and throwing snowballs. I did most of my playing by thinking. I played a little with my brother and sister, pretending we were in shows. Like other children. But usually I did my own pretending. I was up and down. Very happy one moment, the next moment – there was nothing left for me.
“Then I found a theater. I must have been six or seven. Two theaters, really. One was a cabaret; one a regular theater, – across from one another. And there was a back porch to both of them. A long plank on which the actors and actresses walked to get in the back door. I used to go there at seven o’clock in the evening, when they would be coming in, and wait until eight-thirty. Watch them come in; listen to them getting ready. The big back door was always open even in the coldest weather.
